


Returning

by alafaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can John forgive either of the Holmes for their lies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Returning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 holiday challenge at the LJ community "advent challenge". Prompt is "renewal". Also covers the "public transportation" for my cotton candy bingo.

John's phone chimed as he got on the tube and he frowned as he opened the message.

_I could have sent a car if you really must talk. -MH_

He scowled and began typing a reply.

_You fucking knew and didn't tell me. Why didn't you tell me?_

_Because the work Sherlock was doing required that the absolute minimum of people be involved. If you had known, it would have blown his cover. -MH_

_Oh, so now you'll do as Sherlock asks._

_I've done what I can if I can when Sherlock asks me for favors. -MH_

_Including lying to his only friend and your lover?_

_Whatever your feelings are on the matter, John, the fact is irrefutable that if you had known, you would have died. -MH_

John's face twisted in discomfort at the idea. He had trouble believing that he would have died if he had known, assassins or not. His phone chimed.

_John, we did it because we love you. I know you believe us both incapable of loving others, but we do. In our own ways, we love you. That was why we lied. -MH_

John took a deep breath and let it out, trying to keep calm. He'd left Baker St. and Sherlock to confront Mycroft about the deception, angry and hurt and feeling...he wasn't sure, but there were a lot of emotions churning through John at the moment. But though he had started out as wanting to see Mycroft, as the train sped through the tunnels, the want faded. He just wanted to get out, away, from the mad Holmes brothers and their belief they knew what was best.

He jostled against the pole and the other passengers as he stayed on the train, unsure of what to do now. If he left, Mycroft would track him down. If he stayed, Mycroft would at the very least only have someone shadow him. Mycroft Holmes would never take the tube, after all.

~~~

Finally, he had to get off. He couldn't remain on the train, in limbo, forever. Reality needed to be dealt with. As he climbed up the steps, he found Myroft waiting for him. He ground his teeth together and squared his shoulders. "Been chasing the train?"

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. He was leaning on his umbrella, composed, trying to blend in and utterly failing to. A black car idled behind him. 

John shook his head. "If a person really loves another, they will do what they can make the person happy."

"In trade for your life?" Mycroft said. "Never. I would rather have you alive than be happy."

"You know exactly how much therapy I went through after Sherlock jumped," John said furiously. "How long it took me to move on. You know how often I went to the graveyard and yelled at his headstone. You know what I did after he was gone."

"And if you had known, Sherlock's life would have in danger," Mycroft said. " _You_ would have been in danger. Moriarty's network was vast and encompassed every corner of this globe. My own network would have struggled to match his in trying to keep you safe."

John huffed. "So if you could have protected me, you would have told me? Oh, that's just...Mycroft Holmes, in control until the end."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Except where you and Sherlock are concerned."

"I'm surprised you'll even admit that," John said. "In public no less."

"John--"

"No, no you don't." John shook his head. "I'm going, Mycroft. Don't follow me."

Mycroft stood straight and lifted his chin. "You know I won't."

"And you know I meant something else. Don't play games with me, Mycroft. Not right now."

~~~

John was shot less than a month later. By Moran--in the same spot on the opposite shoulder. Luckily, John was able to see clearly enough to shoot Moran square between the eyes before he passed out.

When he woke up, Mycroft was in the hospital room with him. He was hooked up to several machines and his shoulder felt like there was an ember waiting to burst into flames if he moved just right or the medication wore off. He gritted his teeth and sat up.

"I was shot," John said. 

"Obviously," Mycroft said. He took a deep breath. "Sherlock returns from the dead and you are shot anyway."

"Exactly what you were trying stop, I know," John said darkly.

Mycroft closed his eyes. "I don't believe in prophecy or some such. Despite that, it's obvious that what both Sherlock and I were trying to prevent came true as a prophecy would."

"Stop it," John said. "Just stop it." He swallowed, trying to get some saliva working in his mouth for this conversation, but it still felt like he had been sucked dry. "It happened. Nothing could have changed it. I remember the case clearly--Moran returned here before Sherlock did. He was preparing to shoot me even without proof that Sherlock was alive. He wanted to finish what Moriarty started."

"Sherlock had hoped that by revealing himself, Moran would target him instead," Mycroft said.

"Moriarty wanted to burn the heart out of Sherlock," John said. "Regardless of what Sherlock did or could have done, Moran was going to target me."

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Sherlock has hidden himself from me. I can't find him--he went underground after you had safely come out of the operating room. I can only assume he has taken the blame for what happened."

"He'll return when he's ready," John said bitterly.

Mycroft sighed. "John, I...I will never expect you to forgive me. I know that I have likely ruined our entire relationship, but I knew that when I learned of Sherlock's secret and kept it. I would not change anything. My door, however, will always be open to you." He haltingly put a hand on John's where it lay on the bed. "Be well, John."

~~~

Therapy was worse the second time around. When he had been shot the first time, he had been able to lean on his second, whole shoulder to support him when his injured one just wouldn't work right. But now he had two bad shoulders and neither of them worked right and neither supported him when he needed them to. As he sweated and swore his way through the exercises the therapist had given him, he had no time for other emotions.

Sherlock returned in December, looking much as he had when he returned from the dead--far too skinny, pale, and in need of a good wash. They'd screamed and destroyed the flat--much to Mrs. Hudson's dismay--and in the end, ate too much Chinese food in the remains of their flat. It wasn't how it had been, but it was better than the stretching silence between them. There were cases and dark alleys and slowly, John's shoulder healed.

On Christmas Eve, Sherlock left the kitchen and sat across from him. John looked up slowly from his book and frowned. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock pressed his fingers together against his lips. "You haven't spoken to Mycroft in two months."

John raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"He's miserable," Sherlock said finally.

John returned to his book. "I thought your brother's happiness wasn't important to you, Sherlock. Your hatred of him, I'm sure will become the stuff of legends."

"I asked him to keep my existence a secret," Sherlock said. "I demanded it."

 _Except where you and Sherlock are concerned._ John turned the page, struggling to be unmoved, but he couldn't stop his thoughts turning over Mycroft's words, their conversations. Sherlock's biggest weakness might be John, but Mycroft's was Sherlock's. Still, it didn't change the fact. "He still could have told me. He's a grown man, capable of doing what he wants."

"No matter how I feel about Mycroft, he's always cared for me," Sherlock said. He took a deep breath. "He almost caused a war in a third world country because I needed the diversion it would have caused."

A news segment surfaced in John's mind about rising tensions in Africa two years ago--a disagreement that would have caused a civil war only to be stopped at the last moment by several odd events.

"So?"

"I asked him because if it had happened, I would have been able to kill Moran in Africa and you would have no longer been in danger," Sherlock said. "Moran was the last assassin and the only remaining threat of Moriarty's network to you."

"So why was I shot, Sherlock? Did you two decide the game needed to go on longer?"

"Moran moved before I could act," Sherlock said. "I miscalculated Moran--he didn't wish to remain in a country where men would fight over a scrap of land that had no strategical advantage." He leaned forward, eyes focused completely on John. "John, Mycroft is not the sort of man who thinks with his heart. He's always unsure, as I am, of what to do when our emotions are involved. He may not have acted as you wanted him to, but he did it because he cares for you."

John threw his book down and stormed out of the room, unable to think clearly.

~~~

Mycroft's door wasn't open, literally, until John was on the doorstep. Anthea, texting as always, walked him toward the back of the house where Mycroft's private office was. She left them, closing the door behind her.

"A civil war?" John said. "Really?"

Mycroft stopped writing. "He told you."

John put his hands in his pockets. "Yeah."

The pen was put back in its stand and Mycroft leaned back. "I would have done it. Let it happen if it meant Moran would have died before ever reaching England again."

John licked his lips. "And it wouldn't have done anything advantageous for you or England or any other political agenda?"

"No."

"So you literally almost started a war because Sherlock asked and it would have saved my life?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Yes. It likely would have haunted my career for the rest of my days and led to the end of it, in fact, but I would risk it all again."

John chuckled. "That is...the single strangest act of love I've ever known."

Mycroft smiled tightly. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Completely beats out the dissected remains of a human heart I received from a fellow student when I was at St. Bart's." John removed his jacket and moved around the desk to sit on the edge. "I'm still mad at you."

Mycroft's smile eased into something softer, more private. "I'll never expect you'll forgive me for it."

John sighed and took Mycroft's hands into his own. "I don't know if I can, but you did almost destroy a country for me so I suppose for now we can let it be. Come to bed?"

~~~

Mycroft was watching John from the end of the bed. He was wrapped into a tatty dressing gown that John vaguely recognized as his own. He smiled and held out a hand. Instead of taking it, however, Mycroft put in it a small box. "Happy Christmas, John."

John frowned and sat up. He studied Mycroft for any hints, but found nothing. He opened it and blinked. "A key?"

"To my front door," Mycroft said. "I'll give you the code for the alarm later. It changes fairly often, but I've assured those who guard me that you can be trusted with it."

John half smiled. "My own key."

"I trust I don't have to explain myself."

John set the key and box on the nightstand and pulled Mycroft down until they were face to face, Mycroft on top. "No. Not this time."

Mycroft sighed. "Good."

John wrapped his arms around Mycroft and breathed deep. "Happy Christmas to you, too." He paused, but only for a moment. "I love you."

Mycroft didn't answer, but the almost contented purr John heard was more than enough.


End file.
